


What you need

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Choking, Comfort, Cowgirl Position, Hair-pulling, Hitting, Light BDSM, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sort Of, Subdrop, burr's a coward what did you expect, nice, wow this is real indulgence, yeet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:18:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: 'You call that a slap?' is what he says, eyes alight with a smugness that makes Burr want to kiss him into a wreck again, maybe make him come from loosely jacking him off in one hand, maybe have one or four fingers buried in his ass, threatening to press down at his prostate and stay there even if he cried. He wouldn’t do that today, though, not when he’d expressed such a clear and delicious desire for something else.(Or, the one with rough Hamburr sex ig)





	What you need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitfor_it](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfor_it/gifts).



He’d learnt, relatively early on, that Hamilton liked it rough.

Before they’d become an official couple, there were signs, of course. Nothing too obvious; their encounters at the time had been strictly during business hours, it would be unprofessional to be explicit about it. Perhaps it was the way Hamilton often winced at his desk at times when he thought no one was looking, or the way Burr found that the man’s nipples were not-so-innocently pierced, when he decided to take his blazer off one particularly warm day. Perhaps it was the way Hamilton sometimes wore his hair down at work for weeks at a time (Burr had long accepted that Hamilton’s loud, complaining voice at the inconvenience of long hair would be heard throughout the entire office despite the soundproofing) and, if you were patient, this would also mean the barest glimpse of skin sucked scarlet red from kisses pressed just a little too hard.

Finding out for certain had actually been more of an accident.

They’d had sex a reasonable number of times, in his opinion (it wasn’t in Hamilton’s, but that was his way, he would give so much of himself to everything he did, but it was never enough, couldn’t ever be enough-) when Hamilton had begun grasping at his hair. Now, obviously, Burr didn’t have much of the stuff on his head, it being cropped close to the scalp. So he makes a bemused sound, and pulls away, ignores the resulting whine at the movement, and stares across at Hamilton’s spirited gaze. The man attacked each task in life with the same fury and passion as the next, and Burr still wasn’t sure if it was the most foolish or the most endearing trait to him.

He asks him why he stopped, clever eyes taking in their position on the bed and no doubt quickly analysing it for anything that could have prompted Burr’s reaction, voice half cracking as he quite visibly struggles to regain composure. Hamilton loses himself in sex, sometimes, gets so absorbed that it is difficult to pull him out again, so the words have fire, are full of heat and desperate to relight. His lips are bright pink, swollen from their activity, but Burr must ask, so he does.

Hamilton’s face does something at this, contorts slightly in that his eyes widen momentarily and the blush, at first only dusting his cheeks, now floods downwards to decorate his throat.

He mutters an answer rather quickly, that strange, thick accent suddenly returning to masque the words. _Again_ , Burr tells him, and he finally says it coherently. It is as though the embarrassment has flicked a switch, as he utters it so loud that Burr is concerned the whole apartment block hears him.

It’s a dirty sentence, burning with the same frustration Hamilton always has, but all the more depraved in his lexical choice. _Pull my hair,_ he begs. _Call me names, call me yours, strike me-- hell, choke me-- whatever you want._

Burr is… apprehensive. Knowing of Hamilton’s inclinations was quite different to having it presented right in front of you, in a pliant, warm and open body that was so, so eager. He licks his lips, doesn’t miss the way Hamilton’s eyes follow, and smiles. The words roll out low, swaying slightly from arousal. _If you want,_ he replies, simple.

Hamilton sighs, perhaps louder than what would be considered natural. Presses all his weight onto Burr with one tiny _oof,_ pushing him flat against the mattress, and they’re kissing again. They were clutching at each other anyway, but Burr take’s Hamilton’s words to heart and trails his left hand from its place at the man’s hip up, along his spine, past the nape of his neck (which makes a small shiver to run through Hamilton’s bones, something Burr delights at) and threads a grip on his hair. Hamilton jolts, moaning into Burr’s mouth, and his hips stagger a little, which makes them both moan.

It’s like they’re fucking already as they kiss, their legs splayed and connected together, every move they make magnifying itself, the sheer proximity they have to each other working them both further and further up. And Hamilton is noisy. Whereas Burr’s breath stutters, maybe gets heavier as they progress, the volume of Hamilton’s voice just increases and increases. Sometimes Burr wonders if when he receives the mail, it will be that the neighbours have at last issued a noise complaint. 

He voiced this to Hamilton once, but he only laughed, a slight flush appearing at his jaw.

Hamilton whispers his request again, feverishly, and Burr listens. He uses the hand in Hamilton’s hair to manoeuvre him, yanking his head back. The moan catches in his throat, and Burr worries that he’s been too rough, but then Hamilton was grinding his hips down again, and was already half babbling that he was alright, that he _liked_ it, that he likes it when people were rough _and please can you keep doing that, sir--_

Burr settles at Hamilton’s throat and entertains himself listening to the gasping state of Hamilton’s body as he sucks as many marks as he can into Hamilton’s pale skin. Hamilton claws at him at this, unintentional of course, so Burr doesn’t mind the occasional scratch. They heat his skin, somewhat, and his heart beats loud as he imagines the amplified sensation of teeth and tongue at a sensitive neck. Hamilton was a picture. Now, Burr was no John Trumbull, but he took a good amount of pride and pleasure in knowing it was he who was the cause of Hamilton’s mindless babbling, his moans and his curses.

 _More, more,_ Hamilton tells him, _hit me. Please-- hit me, fucking hit me make me cry,_ and Burr thinks for a moment, head tilting, before taking his left hand, the one fisted in Hamilton’s hair, away. He smooths the strands down for a moment and shushes Hamilton distractedly as he complains. They sit up, and Hamilton already has a hand massaging his own prick, the impatient bastard. Burr takes this moment of distraction to wind his hand back and tries not to wince as he does as he was asked. That sound of skin hitting skin is almost on the wrong side of loud for him, and he reminds himself of the context.

Hamilton on the other hand goes still for a moment, and Burr asks again half-panicked questions of _are you okay_ , and _do we need to stop?_ But Hamilton waves his concern away. He wasn't expecting the response.

 _You call that a slap?_ is what he says, eyes alight with a smugness that makes Burr want to kiss him into a wreck again, maybe make him come from loosely jacking him off in one hand, maybe have one or four fingers buried in his ass, threatening to press down at his prostate and stay there even if he cried. He wouldn’t do that today, though, not when he’d expressed such a clear and delicious desire for something else.

The audacity of his lover knew no bounds, and Burr resists the fondest grin.

He throws his hand back again and oh, this time there’s beautifully pink mark threatening to bloom and stain the skin. There is a certain glassy quality to those mischievous eyes now, one that Burr knows intimately to be Hamilton’s attempt at keeping in tears. The words echo in his mind, and so he leans close to Hamilton’s ear, breath hot, and whispers best he can the most obscene forms of address that he knew. Hamilton’s breath hitches at each one, and just when Burr begins to feel a deep remorse, Hamilton’s touching his own dick again and moaning out Burr’s name. It’s safe to assume that any negative feelings Burr was feeling at this point change, travel to his member and stay there. Full of mild frustration, he’s fuelled with the courage to continue.

They’ve lost most of their clothes sometime during all of this, but they still have to kick off their boxers to keep going. Hamilton reaches into the drawer by their bed without looking and grabs the lube bottle. It’s nearly empty.

Hamilton presses his own fingers in at first, impatient as ever, but then the angle’s wrong and his fingers aren't quite long enough so he straddles Burr’s lap, looks at him expectantly. Burr takes this as his cue to continue what he started, so he utters something about Hamilton’s inability to satisfy himself alone, expresses his pleasure that his _pretty whore_ was _so eager to let me help._

Hamilton whines, spoilt and high in his throat, and he can’t help the groans that drip from his lips as Burr’s slick fingers stretch him out. The press down onto Burr’s dick was punctuated (rewarded) by much the same comments of what a _good slut,_ what a _lovely slut_ he was being, _all for me,_ and Hamilton’s thighs shake, both from the strain to go slow to avoid injury as well as Burr and his words. _Damn,_ he thinks eloquently, mind clouding, the words harder to reach in his pleasure. He needed… He desired, one more thing.

Still rocking, he tapped at one of Burr’s hands-- both of them had made home at his love-handles again, as they were wont to do-- and took it in hand, pushed it up towards his neck and looked insistently at Burr, eyes pleading, hoping he would take the hint. Burr's hand teased at his nipples momentarily, toying with the cool metal keeping the small buds sensitive, and Hamilton feared he'd been misunderstood, but Burr's next move assured him that he hadn't.

Burr closes his hand around Hamilton’s neck like a vice, and Hamilton gapes. Arches his back and tries (and fails) to take another gasp of air in as Burr’s dick reached deeper at the slight change in angle. He distantly heard Burr curse softly under his breath, and didn’t need to look to know that his brows were probably drawn together, perhaps his mouth open due to just how heavily he was breathing from both exertion and arousal. Burr, somewhat uncharacteristically, speeds up when reaching the precipice of an orgasm, and Hamilton knew this, could sense it, so he puts a hurried palm to his own cock, engorged and fat with untapped desire. It twitches fast in his grasp as he adds pressure to the vein at the side, pulls back the foreskin and almost makes himself entirely convulse as he rather roughly thumbs the slit. 

He comes first, clenching around Burr, who is seemingly encouraged by this to come a moment later, a stagger to his pace before low sigh leaves him. He matches Burr in the sudden laxness of his muscles, and he eases off Burr’s softening dick with a wince before laying down beside his bedmate. The lack of oxygen must have got to him, because despite the haze, a little after the usual glow of sex begins to dissipate, Hamilton finds himself… inexplicably… sad.

No, sad wasn't quite the right word. Empty? 

Tears form in his eyes again, but this time it wavers just on the wrong side of overwhelming rather than nice. Unable to stand it, he buries his face into Burr’s side, seeking any form of positive attention. His skin crawls, and the words tumble out of him before he can think, a great anxious stream of _was it good did I do good_ solely occupying his mind, the textures of the bed half lulling him but somehow also irritating him. He’s spiralling, shaking despite the heat of the day and the apartment, mind in a darkening room with no reprieve, a candle covered by a bucket and killed off once it had fulfilled the purpose. He

 _You did perfectly,_ Burr says after a moment of silence, a hand rubbing his back, steady, grounding him. _So good, so perfect for me, baby. I love you._ And Hamilton knows that Burr means it, and he laughs despite the stinging tears in a pathetic sort of quasi-laughter that bubbles out from him like a sob. _I love you too,_ _I'm sorry,_ he says, and jumps at the chance to feel a little anger, desperate to have anything but the emptiness. It was Hamilton who asked for this, for crying out loud, why was he the one getting upset? _It’s okay,_ _dear,_ Burr continues, still rubbing his back, still a known and welcome pressure. _You’re okay. Why don’t we take a bath?_ He asks, tone compassionate, and he lightly kisses Hamilton’s cheek.

And, quite wonderfully, he thinks he will be.

**Author's Note:**

> i tend to hate dialogue so this was a cool style to try out, will definitely be using it again lol
> 
> hope you enjoyed this fic!


End file.
